“There’s a garage fire at Jill Becker’s house. Fire Department is already on scene and requesting law enforcement.”
Walker’s hand massages his temples. “I’m on my way.”
The warmth that had settled over the room vanishes.
My appetite disappears.
Walker is already reaching for his jacket. Blake has her phone out and dials Santiago to tell him what’s going on.
Walker opted to drive his own truck, seeing as how he’ll probably have to stay longer than us. Blake, Santiago, and I jumped into Santiago’s GMC. Knowing we’d argue over who gets to sit next to Blake, Santiago lifted the center console and converted it into a jumper seat for Blake.
Twenty minutes later, we’re winding through the back roads north of town.
Smoke looks different to me now. When I see it, my chest tightens before my brain can catch up.
My stomach knots before we even reach the driveway, but I shove it aside.
It’s not Blake. It’s not Santiago. They’re not in the fire.
When we arrive, the worst of the flames have already been knocked down.
Thick gray smoke curls from the open garage, drifting lazily across the driveway. Firefighters move with practiced efficiency, dragging blackened hoses through puddles that reflect flashing red lights. Steam rises where freezing air collides with scorched concrete, wrapping the property in a ghostly haze.
The sharp scent of the smoke hangs heavy in the air. It settles in the back of my throat.
Some smells never really leave you.
We meet Walker by the curb, waiting for his direction.
A flash of déjà vu hits me square in the chest. My eyes blink rapidly as I glance around the scene, searching for the familiar sight.
Scratching the back of my head, I question, “Does this scene feel familiar to anyone else?”
Walker scans our surroundings. “What?”
“Evan Lockhart,” I answer.
Understanding dawns on Walker and Santiago’s faces.
Blake’s face scrunches. “Who is Evan Lockhart?”
Walker shifts on his feet, uneasy. “He…”
“He had a garage fire like this as well,” Santiago explains to Blake.
Fire Chief Tad Jenson strolls over to where we stand. “Thanks for coming, Sheriff.”
Walker shakes Tad’s hand. “Anytime.” He turns to Santiago and directs, “You and Blake walk the perimeter and set up the crime scene tape. There’s a roll in my truck.”
“On it,” Santiago replies.
Blake lifts her hands, palms up, while shrugging her shoulders. “I’m in no way qualified for any of this, but sure. I’ll help.”
“You’re a volunteer,” Walker reminds her.
“For forensic art. Not forensic science,” Blake sasses, and strides after Santiago.
Walker tips his head to Tad, lowering his voice and motioning me to step forward and join the conversation.
